Category: Free verse

Return to work by Sarah L Dixon


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That corridor.
The same paint-peeling door.
The same two letters.

Every time I return.

From sickness.
From holiday.
From Christmas.

Twelve attempts
of favourite pets, words and people,
a variety of years, dates
and single numerals.

I’m locked out.

The whole office
know where I’ll be
at 9.03.

At the desk of Graham
from I.T. He smiles.
He’s been expecting me.

Sarah L Dixon tours as The Quiet Compere.  She has been published in Ink, Sweat and Tears and The Interpreter’s House among others. Sarah’s inspiration comes from being by water and adventures with her five-year old, Frank.  She is still attempting to write better poetry than Frank did aged 4!

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Worry by Meg Barton


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What if
You were teleported
Into Ancient Greece, or Ancient Babylon,
Or the court of King Alfred
Appearing at their fireside like
A vision
And you told them you came from the future
And they said
“Tell us something to help us
Something our minds haven’t conceived of”
And the teleporter voice said
“You’ve got two minutes left”
What on earth would you say?
What would you tell them?
And if you said
“My mind’s gone blank”
And they said
“OK tell us, at least tell us
A joke that we haven’t heard before”
And you couldn’t even think of that
Not a single one.
Your big chance to save the world
Or alter the course of history
And you messed up.
How embarrassing would that be?
Sometimes I worry about this.

Meg Barton lives in Oxford, and has been published in a few magazines including The Interpreter’s House and Lighten Up Online.

 

The Rotter Above by Gary W. Hartley


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Before my time
the guy upstairs

lay dead for a fortnight
before anyone
clocked it

This appears to be
a common thing
in Wood Green

The epicentre
of mountainous mail
pile-ups

decaying neighbours
and shrugs

It’s really quite renowned for it

One local deceased got a
sympathetic documentary
portrait – an empty fame

the guy upstairs did not.

See, apparently he was
some sort of
neighbour-from-hell
megatwat

So I guess,
that explains that.

Gary W. Hartley is also known as Gary From Leeds. His debut collection ‘Your Attempt to Enjoy These Poems is Considered Unsatisfactory’ is out now on LSL Press.

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Aphids – A Tabloid Week by Norman Hadley


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GREENFACED INVADERS TARGET UK GARDENS

IMMIGRANT POPULATION SOARS 300% IN A WEEK

FATHERS WHO NEVER KNEW THEIR YOUNG

THE SINGLE MOTHERS SUCKING BRITAIN DRY

BORN PREGNANT – THE SHOCKING TRUTH

LADYBIRD STRIKE FEARS – LATEST

NO ENGLISH ROSE SAFE

Norman Hadley is an engineer and mathematician who writes poetry, short fiction, children’s fiction and cycling-related nonfiction to keep all the hemispheres occupied. He’s produced five poetry collections so far and frenetic participation in Jo Bell’s “52” project has generated sufficient material for five more.

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Anorak by Gillian Mellor


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The first time he tried it on it felt all wrong.
So, he left it a while, studied pictures
in magazines before buying tickets to ride;
waited on draughty platforms hoping to make
connections. There were no names. He knew
them only by number. When he rode them
20002 whistled loudly, 37688 roared like a lion.

He bought himself a house by the lineside.
Slept by them, dreamt of them, threw
open sash windows to gawp at them,
took photos, joined forums, paid for
models, inhaled their scent: Diesel
and Heavy Braking his favourites.
He rattles off numbers of Virgins
bemoaning they pass by too fast.

Gillian Mellor lives near Moffat in Scotland. She has had poems published on and offline and can be traced to The Moffat Bookshop on the days they let her out.

 

Percussion Band, or Letting the Whole School Down by Marilyn Francis


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Overawed by circumstance
(sounding brass and angels)
I missed three cymbal clashes.

No one was more surprised
than me when Miss Madden
promoted me from triangles.

Cymbals are a crucial element
in this performance, she said,
I’m going to trust you

to get it right, on the night.
I loved Miss Madden
for choosing me.

It seems that failing to strike
a note at all is worse than
striking the wrong one.

Nowadays I think it was more
the cymbolic representation
of one hand clapping.

Marilyn Francis lives, works, and writes poems near Radstock in the wild south-west of England. She has had one collection of poems, “red silk slippers”, published by Circaidy Gregory Press. She also has some other poems out and about in the world, though she has even more lazing in her notebooks.

 

Bread by Sharon Larkin


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Cottage where you can raise the roof
lop off chunks, spread doorsteps
with dollops of butter
and home made strawberry jam
yet sip tea in bone china
with an apostle spoon on the side.

Best slit the baton along its length
and stuff it – avec du jambon,
du fromage, de la salade –
et du plonk, bien sûr,
quaffed with gesticulation,
shrugs, lower lip extension,
and a petit soupçon of disdain
at not having made
the rank of baguette.
Bof.

Or pick up a bloomer,
the brash Brit baglady
of Carry On Kneading,
the baker’s chortle
at a hint of knickers.
Ace with kippers.

(Previously published at Your One Phone Call)

Sharon Larkin‘s poems have been published online (Clear Poetry, The Stare’s Nest), in magazines (Prole, Obsessed with Pipework) and in anthologies (Cinnamon Press, Indigo Dreams}. She has been chair of Cheltenham Poetry Society (2011 – 2015) and has an MA in Creative Writing.

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What Was His Name Again? by Susan Jordan


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I’ve seen him half a dozen times
that man with the – you know – the
what-do-you-call-it sweater. The one
who – didn’t he? – lived with… Jean?

I always thought he should have been
a Peter, or was it James? He’s got
that kind of face. Or he could be
a William, except he isn’t, he’s a—

You must know who I mean. He eats
spelt bread, rides horses, meditates
all hours of the day and night.
Doesn’t he? Or am I thinking of—?

No, that wasn’t him. That was
—oh, the other one, the bloke
you always said looked like
a sort of weasel. That moustache.

Got it. It wasn’t that one at all.
The man I meant has holes
all over his socks and writes
haiku, won’t wear polyester.

Ah, wait… that rings a bell. Surely
you knew him too. You did?
You never see him now. You thought
at least I might remember that.

Susan Jordan has always written prose but until recently wrote poetry only from time to time. Inspired by 52, Jo Bell’s wonderful online group, she started writing a lot more poems. Her poems have appeared in print and online magazines including Prole, Obsessed with Pipework, Snakeskin and Ink, Sweat & Tears.

 

Busking on Broadstairs Beach by Lesley Quayle


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The night was liquid,
a sultry, heady brew
when we unlocked the music,
cool plains of sax
and smoky coils
of rhythm from an old guitar,
no rush when the song,
smooth as a dark river,
smooched the air.

Out across gold water
cruised by moon
and the whisky glow
of the promenade lights,
it streamed like sparks,
grazing sea now and then,
laidback, sighing.

From somewhere
the hurdy gurdy gabble
of a fairground organ
waddled into the night,
bumped into our busking,
made us turn up the volume
until an irate romeo chased us –
coitus interruptus –

sax and sex one summer night
on Broadstairs beach.

Lesley Quayle is a widely published poet and a folk/blues singer currently living in deepest, darkest rural Dorset.

 

Green Graffiti by Tom McColl


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Buds, arranged to spell “Fuck U”,
have sprouted up along the edge
of every flower-bed in our local park.

Police psychologists conclude
that this spate of horticultural graffiti
has been committed by a lone teenage individual
whose background is an explosive mix
of broken home and well-kept garden…

Thomas McColl has had poems published in magazines such as Envoi, Rising, Iota and Ink, Sweat and Tears, and his first full collection of poetry, Being With Me Will Help You Learn, is out now from Listen Softly London Press.

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